Life Immense

Who bestowed majesty on these mountains?
Did I miss the parade and uniforms,
Rites fossilized in eroding generations?

The reverence I feel for those snowy peaks,
Was it learned from heavy handed magistrates,
By threat of punishment with respect demanded?

And my excitement to see the looming ridges,
Was that planted by a looping viral jingle,
A campaign to woo my lucrative affection?

Neither testimony, tithing, nor submission
Demand the mountains from me
Yet heavenward I climb transcendent.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XII: Song of the Broad-Axe”)

Here I splash in my babbling brook, happy, safe, content
Where I know every sound and turn
I plunge deep into the cool stream and stay under
With the familiar submarine domain about me.

There are places in my stream where I feel foreign currents
Unseen tributaries, dark sources of my watery home
These I avoid lest I’m carried away

Sometimes I hear other splashing I raise my head to see
Some misguided simpleton playing gayly in the wrong stream
I call but they dive under, drowning out my invitations

Briefly caught in an unseen eddy I’m whisked against a stone
Injured, dazed I climb onto the rock standing tall to clear the pain
I look about to take comfort in the majesty of my home

Instead I see millions of streams, each home to a stranger,
Lying as a confused tangled rope unwinding to the horizon
Each stream flowing with the topography
Merging and splitting, rising and falling, churning and still

I look back to my little stream, the joy of it,
I look upstream to see whence it came
And down to see it fork 1000 times
This stream I will always love

Jumping into stream after stream I explore, each familiar, each foreign
Am I looking for a better stream?
Each creek seems very much like the last
Would I even recognize mine now?

The stream was my home but now I turn,
My attention drawn to the valley, home of the streams
Then beyond where mountain streams cascade from violent heights
Those streams are much different than these.
Then I wonder about this world, home of the valley.

A new joy flows into me. There is much to see.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK XI: A Song of Joys”)

I’m a stranger here.
The cut of my hair,
Wash of my jeans,
Logo on my shirt,
Betray my origins.
The natives stare,
Puzzling over me,
The curious invader.
I glance sideways
Returning fascination.
What are they doing here?
What am I doing here?
Aren’t we doing the same?
We wander together,
Haphazard, confident,
Here along the banks
Of Last Chance Gulch.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK X: Our Old Feuillage”)

Down the path
But a few steps,
Nostalgic porch light
Tailing the traveler

Heavy knuckled branches
Shadow the trail ahead
Regret, doubt, fear
Hanging low in the way

Back in the village
Familiar faces rehearse
Comfortable rituals,
In love with the village

Yet the traveler turns,
Motivation flickering
Against the ambiguity,
Drawn to the path

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK IX: Song of the Answerer”)

And what shall we say 100,000 years hence?
Will we remember Moore, Turing, and Brin
Or will we be orphaned in time,
Blinded by absolution, searching for the start?
Will we be aware of that fading line
Between what we make and what we are?
After survival has coaxed us into the solid state,
Our bodies capable of far flung starry visits,
Will we paint the same fleshy pictures?

To you, my descendents, species evolved,
I send this message from my primordial cave wall:
I found beauty here.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VIII: Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”)

I ride upon a river black
Over hills, across valleys,
Lush pined canopy
Leaning heavy on the shore.
Native dwellings, scattered,
Line the banks and tributaries
Feeding from the river.
My raft, astride the current
Carries my mind downstream
Where the trees don’t go
Where curious sage brush
Peers through barbed wire
At the rumbling river.
Ahead the mountains pile
Blue upon the horizon.
On we go, on we go still.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VII Song of the Open Road”)

I see a dark spot,
Deep varnished token
In an antique freckled desk.
Blinkless dry eyes burn,
Abberated focus heavy
On the inscrutable spot.
While a tactless clock
By the door, beyond the desk
Stages astigmatic campaigns
For my fickle awareness.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “BOOK VI: Salut au Monde!”)

Dear descendant,

You who will call me ancestor,
Who will look back and wonder
About my speech and clothing,
Who will marvel at my view,
Biases and silly superstitions.
I send you this message,
Bobbing bottle cresting years.

You are right. I know nothing.

Sincerely,

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Full of Life Now”)

Body, hands, face, legs
I feel them, they feel tired.
But what is feeling them?
Thoughts, emotions, dreams
I see them, they look bright
But what is seeing them?
If I am neither body,
Nor thoughts, nor feelings,
Then what is me?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “That Shadow My Likeness”)

Does shame wander here,
Kicking about the pickets,
Leaning heavy on the gate?
Does it wade among the weeds,
Feral garden, and cankered paint?
Some bohemian artist may see pride
In this masterpiece non grata.
I’ll look again tomorrow.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “O You Whom I Often and Silently Come”)